The Fires of Beltane
by Scooter Kitty
Summary: Was Tristan's death predetermined? This is my take on the TristanIsolde story.


1/5/05

THE FIRES OF BELTANE

Author's note: This story takes place approximately one year before the events of the movie.

The large, shaggy, dark form of the wolf loped silently through the forest like a wraith, flitting from one shadow to the next. It trotted with its ears pricked, listening for the sound of its prey. It could smell the rabbit close by, but could not see it. The gloom cast by the tall trees was too deep.

The wolf stopped abruptly, dropping its sensitive nose to the ground. Yes, the rabbit was very close... Suddenly the underbrush off to the right of the wolf burst apart as the rabbit broke from its tenuous cover and tried to run... a fatal mistake. The wolf was on it in a heartbeat...

The high scream of the dying rodent brought the girl awake with a slight gasp... Goddess, what a strange dream, she thought, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. Is this some portent of doom casting its shadow over the day's coming festivities? I should probably inform Bronwen. She will know what to make of it.

Rising from her sleeping pallet, the girl pulled the simple linen shift, dyed the palest of greens, which was to be her attire for the festival, over her head and settled it down over her legs. Pulling the leather thong that bound her hair free, she combed her fingers through the long, honey-colored locks a few times, untangling the worst of the snarls then loosely rebraided it. Satisfied with her appearance, she headed out of the small hut she shared with the village priestess.

Stepping out into the late spring morning sunshine, she glanced up at a rare flawless blue sky. Hearing the high, joyous cry of a hawk on the wing, she turned her head to see its silhouette wheel across the face of the sun. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she watched as the bird of prey, turned off towards the north and the great looming Roman wall.

Returning her attention to the world immediately around her, the girl saw Bronwen heading toward the hut from the nearby woods, carrying a bundle of kindling for the morning's cooking fire. The girl hurried forward to take the bundle from the elderly woman, who gave it up gratefully. It may have been spring, but the mornings were still chilly and the cold air made the woman's hands stiff and achy.

"Did you sleep well, Isolde?" the woman asked the girl as they continued back into the hut.

"Yes, very well and very late. You should have woken me sooner, I could have helped you gather wood," the girl chided gently.

"Oh, nonsense," the older woman said, dismissing these words with a wave of her hand. "Today is your special day and you'll need your rest. Trust me, you won't get much later."

The two women exchanged glances then burst out laughing, the younger woman blushing furiously. Isolde couldn't help but feel a slight shiver of anticipation thinking about the coming events of the day. For today was the Festival of Beltane, the celebration of the coming of spring, the time of plenty. It was a celebration of life, a time to thank the gods for making the world and a time to renew oaths to the land. It was a time to celebrate the joys of life, to eat, drink, and... make merry, for Beltane was also a festival of fertility.

"Oh, Bronwen, I must tell you about my strange dream," Isolde said, the odd dream returning to her mind. "In it, I saw a wolf stalk and kill a rabbit. What do you think it means? It seems rather disturbing, considering the day."

"Hmm, not necessarily," the old woman murmured, musing. "Were you afraid for the rabbit in the dream?"

"No, actually I was excited for the wolf and impressed with its hunting skills, but at the same time, I did feel a strange sense of... I don't know... dread?"

"Hmm... I think the Goddess has sent you a vision of your king."

"My king?" the girl asked.

"Yes, later today, when the time comes for you to choose your king. Look for the wolf. The Goddess has already shown you that he is to be the one."

"Look for the wolf..." Isolde repeated softly to herself, nodding slightly.

"Come, Child, let's finish getting ready. There's still much to be done before the festival starts."

* * *

Dismissed from their morning meeting, the knights rose from the Round Table hastily, eager to be gone from the fortress. Most of them, at least those who were not actively on duty, would be spending the day in the nearby village, enjoying the villager's annual spring festival. Although the gods the villagers honored were different from their own, the knights still welcomed the chance to temporarily escape the tedium and danger that dictated the majority of their lives. The rituals and customs of the villagers were not so radically different from their own peoples and the knights were able to take some comfort from the festivities. Arthur alone remained seated at the table, lingering over his still half-full jar of beer. Seeing this, Lancelot wandered over to his commander and best friend.

"You will not be joining the festivities?" Lancelot asked.

"Well, I thought I would attend for a little while, but I won't stay long, no."

"Your god will be angry if you participate in a pagan orgy?"

Knowing that his friend was deliberately goading him, Arthur refused to take the bait. "Yes, he probably would," he said mildly.

"You do know that it's not a real orgy, certainly not in the 'Roman' sense of the word," Lancelot said with a pointed dig.

"Yes, well, there's still entirely too much free love for my comfort."

The other man shook his head in exasperation. "I do not understand why a man would worship a god who would begrudge him for enjoying one of the few pleasures in life."

Arthur smiled indulgently. "No, I don't suppose you do."

"I think these Britons have the right idea. They trace their lineage through the mother's line, therefore it isn't as important to them who the father of a child is. And they believe that any child conceived during the Festival of Beltane is special, blessed by their gods, and the entire village takes an interest in raising that child, since the father might well be one of several candidates."

"How convenient for you," the Roman said dryly.

Lancelot flashed him a lascivious smile and waggled his dark brows suggestively. "You sure you don't want to stay for the fun?"

"Quite," Arthur said firmly.

"Fine, that leaves more for the rest of us."

* * *

The large, open field that lay beside the village had been decorated for the festival. Tall poles with long ribbon streamers dotted the landscape and tables, ornamented with fresh, spring flowers, fairly groaned under the weight of the food and drink piled upon them. Children chased each other about, garlands of flowers in their hair and around their necks.

Two huge bonfires had been lit about 100 yards apart from each other. The people of the village would drive their livestock between the two fires, thereby earning the animals the blessings of the gods. Later, as the festival progressed, the young men and woman would dance around the fires and the young men would challenge each other to try and leap over the flames.

But for now, everyone was eating and drinking and simply enjoying each other's company. The Sarmatian knights were welcomed warmly by the villagers, who pressed food and drink upon them. They accepted this hospitality gratefully and wandered among the villagers, taking in all the activity around them. Seated at a table of honor, they saw a young woman in a simple, green shift, with flowers and colorful ribbons woven into her flaxen hair. She was a lovely buxom girl, her fair skin lightly dusted with freckles and she had a sturdy, young body, made strong from working in the fields. She smiled at the knights and inclined her head to them in welcome.

They knew from previous attendance at these festivals that she was this year's chosen queen of the festival and she symbolically represented the Great Goddess in the form of one of her many aspects, Blodeuwedd, the Flower Bride. Later in the afternoon, she would choose a king from among the gathered men and he would represent the Goddess' Consort as the Green Man.

For her part, Isolde took note of the arrival of the knights with interest. The Goddess had already shown her the aspect of her chosen king and Isolde knew that he was not one of the villagers. No, she would not find the wolf among the sheep. He would be here, among these strange, fierce warriors. Now she simply had to determine which of them was fated to be her chosen one.

Turning to her left and catching Bronwen's eye, Isolde gave a small nod. The older woman picked up a small wreath made of interwoven oak leaves and the two women stood up from the table and moved to greet the new arrivals together. At once, one of the knights stepped forward. He was tall and dark, and he gave Isolde a charming, mischievous smile. He took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it with a dramatic flourish.

"My Lady," he said in a rich, smooth baritone. "My name is Lancelot and on behalf of my men, let me say that we are your humble servants and we thank you and your people for allowing us to partake of your hospitality."

"You are quite welcome, sir," she said, returning his flirtatious smile, knowing full well that despite his honey-rich voice and charming manners, he was not her wolf. "Please, I encourage you and your men to make yourselves at home. Please, enjoy yourselves. This is the least we can do to thank you for the protection you provide us."

Letting her gaze drift away from the young man before her, she glanced over the faces of the other knights. She saw two battle-scarred men, with their hair shorn close to their skulls in the Roman manner, standing together, but they were both too old. Letting her eyes move on to the next two knights, she noted that one was too fair, the wolf in her dream had been dark, and that man's companion, although dark, was too young. Her eyes continued to scan the faces of the knights, looking for the wolf. She saw plenty of fierce dogs, to be sure, but no wolf.

Then she saw him. He was not particularly tall or of an impressive size, but there was no mistaking the predatory look in his dark eyes, as they followed her every movement. She continued on down the line of potential candidates, deliberately avoiding the man, but still very much aware of him, of his eyes stalking her like his animal aspect from her dream.

Finally, after she had inspected nearly every young man present, including the knights' Christian, half-Roman commander, Isolde moved to stand before the wolf. They watched each other silently for a long moment. He gazed at her steadily and slightly expectantly. It occurred to the girl that she should probably feel unnerved by or perhaps even frightened of this dark, mysterious, young man, with his intently watchful eyes. But she wasn't. She found him fascinating, a puzzle she could take great pleasure in solving.

Without saying a word or letting her eyes leave his, Isolde held her hand out to Bronwen, who had been trailing behind her all the while. The older woman placed the oak leaf wreath into the girl's hand and solemnly, she placed the wreath on the young man's head. The gathered crowd applauded appreciatively as Isolde led her newly crowned king back to the main table. Many of his fellow knights thumped him on the back and gave him quick words of encouragement as they passed by.

Once they were settled at the table of honor, the girl stole a quick sidelong glance at her king. She thought he truly did look like the Green Man, with his predatory gaze and wild, unkempt hair; he did indeed appear to be a child of the forest. His leaf crown became him.

Turning to face him fully, she held out her hand to him boldly. "My name is Isolde. What's yours?"

"Tristan," he answered, taking her hand and giving it a brief squeeze.

His manners were certainly not as smooth and polished as his curly-haired companion's had been, but Isolde found that she preferred him this way. She had frequently found that pretty manners disguised ulterior motives.

As the king and queen of the festival, Tristan and Isolde were required to oversee all the events of the day, which they did. The young man at her side was very quiet throughout, but the girl was not put off by his near silence. Instead, she found it intriguing. He was obviously a man of habitually few words. His silence was comfortable rather than sullen and she found that she did not mind it. He did not require her fill the empty spaces and they seemed able to communicate with each other quite effectively without speaking.

As dusk began to settle over the land and the children and the elderly were hustled off to bed, the festivities took on an entirely different tone. Wine and mead were liberally dispensed and the men and women began dancing around the bonfires, the women holding hands and moving in a sunwise circle, the men inside this ring, moving in the counter direction.

The evening ripened to full darkness and the bonfires began to die down. Gradually the men and women broke from their segregated circles and began to intermingle. Couples began to form and drift off into the dark woods. With still and hour or so until midnight, Isolde took Tristan by the hand and led him away from the field, into the woods. They walked for nearly a half mile through the trees and Tristan was impressed with the girl's fearless confidence. She obviously knew exactly where she was going, even in the darkness.

She led him to a small stream that flowed through a clearing in the trees. The grass was long and lush along its banks. Stepping into the clearing, Tristan could see by the dim light of a small burning brazier that had been previously prepared, that a small wooden hut had been erected. Moving closer to examine it, he realized that it wasn't truly a hut, more like the simple frame of one. It had four posts, which held up a roof made of intertwined branches, while the whole thing was decorated with garlands of flowers and woven leaves and grass. The crude, little structure was just big enough to accommodate two adults lying side by side.

"This is our bower," Isolde said, moving to stand beside Tristan and taking his hand. "This is where we will lie."

Turning to her, he said nothing, just pulled her to him, kissing her deeply. She did not resist, had no desire to. This was the way it was supposed to be. They would make love, here, under the branches of the trees and the full, watching moon and the magical force of their coupling would seep into the earth and awaken her dormant fertility. The four elements were present here in this place, the earth was beneath them, water flowed in the stream to their right, fire burned in the brazier to their left, and the air was present all around them. Everything was properly aligned and primed for potent magics to be wrought tonight.

Isolde felt Tristan's strong fingers in her hair, tugging the flowers and the ribbons free. She reached up and removed the leaf crown, letting it fall to the grass. It was not needed now. All the while their mouths continued to explore each other hungrily. At nineteen, Isolde was no virgin maid, but she had never felt this maddening heat inside of her before. She felt as if her body was burning from the inside and as Tristan's hands slid down along her sides, to rest on her hips, she fancied that the heat of his touch had left sear marks along her skin, under her shift.

She pressed herself to him, half expecting their bodies to melt and fuse together, like two precious metals combining to create a new and stronger one. But no, there was all this clothing in the way. She wanted to feel his hot skin pressed against her own. She wanted to be burned by his consuming fire. Sliding her hands up his chest, she untied the laces of his leather jerkin and pushed it off his shoulders. He released her long enough to shrug it off, but his hands were back at her hips immediately as though he was afraid she would vanish into the darkness if he didn't hold onto her.

Her hands fumbled with the unfamiliar lacings of his leggings and she quickly became frustrated. In her vexation, she simply tried to push them down his narrow hips still laced. Laughing slightly at her impatience, Tristan released her with his hands, although not his mouth, and removed the offending garment himself. He kicked his boots off along with the leggings and the grass felt cool and moist against his bare feet.

Realizing that they would have to separate in order to finish their undressing, they stepped apart. Tristan quickly pulled his linen tunic over his head and helped Isolde pull off her long shift. The girl was already barefoot and to the young knight, she looked like a goddess descended to earth. Her fair skin seemed to glow slightly in the moonlight and her hair was limned in frost. Everything about her seemed to be made of living light.

Running a hand, almost reverently over one pale shoulder, he marveled at the contrast of his dusky skin to her fair. He was the shadow to her flame, the darkness to her light, her opposite in every way. He was the wolf and she the moon.

Taking his hand, she led him to the bower. They both had to duck their heads to enter it and they both knelt on the grass within. Cupping her cheek in one hand, Tristan drew the girl to him in an embrace so tender it surprised even himself. He ran his free hand lightly over her glowing skin, marveling at her body's wondrous contours. He traced the bend of her shoulder, down to the full curve of her breast, and on to the swell of her hip.

Lying back on the grass, Isolde drew the knight down to her, clasping him in her warm embrace. As he entered her, she felt as if she were welcoming home some part of herself, some piece that she hadn't realized until now that she was missing. She pulled him closer, wanting all of him within her, wanting them to be one, wanting the moment to last forever.

But of course, it did not. Afterward, they lay beside each other, sweaty and sated for the moment, catching their breath. Tristan propped himself up on his elbow and gazed down at this woman, whom he had never known before tonight and yet felt like he had known since the beginning of time. But how could that be? He thought. He was a stranger in this land. How could he have known her before?

As if reading his thoughts, Isolde said, "Tell me of your home."

"Home," Tristan repeated the word softly. "I'm not sure I even know the meaning of that word. My people live in a land far to the east, but my people were nomads, we never stayed in one place for long. I'm not sure I even remember it."

But that wasn't entirely true. Closing his eyes, he could see it in his mind, the land of his fathers. He saw the softly rolling hills and the endless, tall grass undulating in the wind like a vast, restless green ocean. But thoughts of this vaguely remembered land did not spark feelings of loss for him, as he knew it did for Galahad. The longest span of his life spent in one place was here, in Britain. Did that make this his true home? He didn't know.

"I was not born to this land either," Isolde said softly. "I come from the land across the western sea, Eire. I don't remember it much either, except that it was very green. Bronwen tells me that my parents and I were found washed up on the beach the morning after a storm. My parents shattered coracle was found nearby. It must have been smashed during the storm. They were both dead, but somehow, small as I was, I survived. I was given to Bronwen to raise.

"So, here we are, two strangers to this land, you from the east, me from the west, and yet we meet here, to join together in honor of the Great Goddess. How can this not have been decided by the hands of the gods?"

Tristan said nothing. He preferred to think that he made his own choices, his own destiny, free of the caprices of any gods. He liked to think that he was at least the master of his own daily decisions, if not his life. And in another year, when he was finally free from Roman slavery, he would truly be his own master. But he did not wish to discuss gods and fate with this beautiful girl right now. In fact, he did not wish to discuss anything right now. Not when actions were so much more satisfying than words. Rested and recovered, he was ready for more and he lowered himself down onto the girl for a deep and inspiring kiss. She welcomed his advances with a throaty laugh and they came together once again.

Later, he laid asleep, his head resting on her bosom, while she lay awake, staring up at the twining branches above their heads. Morning would come soon and she would return to the village and he would return to the wall. Most likely she would never see him again and this caused her more than a little distress. But that was probably for the best, she knew. She would only cause herself more pain if she were to allow herself to become too attached to this man, for she knew that within the year, he would be dead.

As painful as it was, death and sacrifice were always a part of the cycle of life. The strong died to defend the weak and to renew the land. This was as it had always been. Every year, during the Festival of Bel, a king was chosen to play Consort to the Goddess-queen. They would come together, their coupling awakening the land and, Goddess willing, the king's seed would find fertile soil. His part finished, the king would die within the year, his death fulfilling the people's oath to sustain the land.

Isolde did not know what form Tristan's death would take, but it would happen, of this she was certain. She had condemned him to die the moment she had placed the oak wreath upon his head. But the Goddess had willed it and she had obeyed. She also felt certain that his would be a good death, in battle. His spilled blood would make the land holy and would ensure the cycle of life continued and the crops would grow and the people would not starve. His sacrifice would not be in vain.

She did not know if his seed had found purchase and would grow within her, but she sincerely hoped that it had. She would like to bring forth a child who bore those same wild, wolf's eyes. The wolf's hunt would end prematurely, but it could be continued by another.

* * *

Arthur stood staring at the graves of his fallen knights long after the others had left. The unfairness of their deaths still gnawed painfully at his gut. He supposed it always would. They had come so far, had been so close to freedom. They had died free men, he told himself. No one could take that from them. They had died well and honorably. A warrior could ask for no more than that.

With a sigh, he turned and walked several feet away from the graves to gaze out at the sun disappearing beyond the western horizon. Silently he offered up a prayer to God to give him the strength to survive the long days ahead of him. He turned to head back to the fortress, when he noticed a figure standing beside Tristan's grave. He recognized the woman from the village just south of the wall. She was the village priestess, Bronwen, he thought her name was. She was holding a bundle in her arms and was speaking to it quietly. With a slight start, Arthur realized it was a baby.

"That's your father lying there, Little One," she said softly to the babe. "He died for you and for all of us. He's with the Goddess now and so is your mother. She died bringing you into this world. But she and your father are together again, as they've always been, so don't fret for them. And don't fret for yourself either. The Lord Bel looks after the children conceived on His special day."

Arthur moved closer to the woman and called softly. "Grandmother, may I see the child?"

"Of course, My Lord," the woman said, holding out the small bundle for the man's examination.

The child was small and pink, with a shock of dark, fuzzy hair. Its eyes were that undecided dark milky blue that many children were born with. The true color of the eyes would generally fix itself within the first year.

"A boy?" Arthur asked.

"Yes. His mother named him Tristram, after his father, just before she died."

"He is truly Tristan's child?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"When he turns ten, bring him to me. I will see to it that he is given a proper education and training. Let my man, Jols, know where you are living and I will also see to it that he is properly provided for. Neither you, nor he, will ever go hungry. You have my word."

"Thank you, My Lord. That is most generous," the old woman said, with a slight bow.

"No, it is the least I can do."

After the knight had left her, Bronwen gazed down at the child in her arms, a slight smug smile on her face. "You see, Child, the Lord Bel always looks after his own and just so, the cycle of life continues."

THE END


End file.
